Page 11 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
As I walk her to the door, I imagine what it would feel like to have her in my house permanently. To wake up with her body beside me, to have her sitting across from me at breakfast, and, if she’ll let me, to claim her so thoroughly that everyone in Sunnybrook will know exactly who she belongs to.
It’s already settling in that the most dangerous part of this arrangement won’t be convincing the town we’re together.
It’ll be remembering that it’s supposed to be fake.
Once we’ve made our way to the door, I find myself reluctant to let her go. The evening feels unfinished somehow, despite everything we’ve discussed.
I should say something meaningful, something that might tip the scales in my favor, but instead I settle for, “Goodnight, Frankie.”
She pauses with her hand on the handle. “Goodnight… And Raphael?”
I wait.
“That thing you said about your grandmother? About minotaurs not having to be bulls in a china shop.”
“Yes?”
“She sounds like she was a wise woman.”
Frankie leaves me at that, and I stand in my doorway for a long time, wrestling with what I have done.
Tomorrow, she’ll either show up with a suitcase, or she’ll avoid me for the rest of her life.
But something tells me Frankie Baker isn’t the type to choose the safe option.
And God help us both, I’m counting on it.
Chapter 4
Before I Change My Mind
Frankie
The Saturday farmers market sprawlsacross the town square like a patchwork quilt, vendors’ colorful awnings creating pools of shade beneath the ancient oak trees. The air carries the scents of fresh bread, lavender sachets, and Diego’s signature coffee blend, while the gentle murmur of conversations weaves through the rustle of leaves overhead. Children dart between the stalls clutching paper bags of kettle corn, and couples stroll hand-in-hand, sampling artisanal cheeses and heirloom tomatoes.
I should feel at ease here. This market has been my second home since childhood. But today, I feel like I’m watching it all through frosted glass. My body moves automatically, arranging honey jars by color gradient, making change, smiling at customers, while my mind replays last night on an endless loop.
“You’ll belong to me.”
I have to grip the edge of my table to steady myself as Mrs. Henderson asks about my lavender honey. I struggle to focus on her question, trying to forget the way his dark eyes had burned when he made his outrageous proposal.
“It’s perfect for tea,” I tell her, hoping she doesn’t notice the slight shake in my voice. “The bees love the lavender fields up on Miller Road.”
She buys two jars, patting my arm as she hands over the money. “You’re such a treasure, dear. Just like your grandmother.”
The comparison hits differently today. Yesterday, being compared to Grandma Rose felt like the highest compliment in the world.
Today, it feels like a cage.
“Frankie, darling!” Eleanor Hartwell’s voice carries across the market square as she approaches my booth, her silver hair caught up in an elaborate bun secured with what looks like vintage hat pins. Her bedazzled fanny pack catches the morning sunlight as she navigates between customers with the determined stride of someone half her age.
“You look absolutely radiant today,” she continues, reaching my booth and immediately beginning to rearrange my candle display with the confidence of someone who helped my grandmother set up this same booth for decades. “Positively glowing!”
I touch my cheek self-consciously. “Uh… Thanks, Eleanor.”
“I was just telling Patty about the new energy I’ve been sensing around town. Very interesting shifts are happening.” Eleanor leans closer, her voice dropping to a stage whisper that probably carries to the next county. “The spirits are practically humming with anticipation. Something big is coming, mark my words.”
If Eleanor only knew what I was considering, she’d probably credit her crystals with predicting it.
